


Nine-Tenths of the Law

by Sans_Souci



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bottom Thorin, Dom/sub, Domestic, Kink Meme, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of bad things that happened in the past, Mild Kink, Spoilers, Sub Thorin, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sans_Souci/pseuds/Sans_Souci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly D/s AU: Thorin is a kingly King in public as he takes charge of the rebuilding Erebor, but Bilbo’s in control when they are alone in private. Not just when it comes to sex. Kink-meme prompt combining~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine-Tenths of the Law

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=3483067#t3483067
> 
> And this one: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9255957

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And that concludes our session for the day,” Balin said, a shade more firmly to the gathered lords, merchants and administrators. Predictably, there was a rumble of discontent, but Balin rapped his staff against the stone floor.

“This audience is ended.” Turning to the King Under the Mountain, the seneschal bowed low, prompting the others to do the same.

“It is almost ten o’clock, sire,” Balin said, _sotto voce_ , as his head bent towards his king. Thorin’s trusted advisor straightened up, his face a blank slate again.

Thorin Oakenshield of the Line of Durin rose from his throne and strode sedately from the dais, his movements not betraying his true desire to leave the Hall of Audience. The pairs of guards lining the passageways snapped to attention as the King passed on the way to his private chambers.

As befitting the leader of Durin’s Folk, first of the seven clans, the King’s private suite was a series of interconnecting rooms, but what lay behind the doors was not exactly . . . dwarvish.

For instance, dwarves were not keen on wood-panelling and circular doorways. They were all for fur rugs and tapestries, but not framed portraits of various landscapes. The number of framed maps and comfortably cushioned chairs in the rooms would have been familiar to some under the mountain--a very select few, in fact.

It was late, but the fire in the hearth of the sitting room was warm and bright as the small figure seated in the plush armchair by the fireplace stirred at Thorin’s approach.

"You're back." Bilbo Baggins was, even after a year under the mountain, a hobbit and a most hobbit-like tone of peevishness accompanied this statement. He might be dressed in a practically royal class of waistcoat and cravat, but he still resembled a good-natured gentlehobbit, homely and slightly soft around the middle. A grocer with a will like iron, Thorin had learned. “And so late too.”

"There was _another_ dispute about the cost of materials." The rebuilding of Erebor was progressing at a rapid pace, but there were definitely a few bumps along the way. Dwarves were calculating by nature and once the initial euphoria of gaining the mountain back had evaporated, all that gold had an almost magnetic effect on all the dwarf clans. They almost beat the doors down trying to offer the services of their craftsmen--for a fee of course. Since he was the King, the fee had been more than just princely.

"Haggling with petty bureaucrats and merchants all day long will give you wrinkles." Bilbo set the book he was reading aside after popping in a leather bookmark and stood up expectantly. 

"More wrinkles, you mean." The royal kiss was duly bestowed and while his head was bent, Bilbo lifted the iron crown of Erebor from his brow.

"Well, yes, you do have attractive wrinkles, but too much of a good thing can be bad," the hobbit said as he scrutinised the brow of the King. "Have you had dinner?"

Thorin shook his head and Bilbo sighed. "I thought so. Sit down and I'll bring you supper. And take your boots off."

Used to Thorin's workaholic ways, Bilbo usually had some soup or stew in a pot by the fire. This he ladled out into a deep ceramic dish and set before Thorin, who picked up his spoon without argument and started eating while Bilbo fussed about and laid heated bricks wrapped in towels around his feet. The wounds from the Battle of the Five Armies had been slow to heal and they had left more than just scars in their wake.

While Bilbo Baggins could not interfere in the matters of state and did not determine when his king could slip the yoke of his onerous duties, he could certainly make sure that Thorin Oakenshield was fed, rested and kept away from work when he was back within the royal suite. 

They had made a promise before they had entered the mountain together, after pledging their troth on the battlefield. They were not equals--they could never be equals. But there had been another way of redressing the balance of power. So far, it was working out better than either of them had expected.

_Thorin had remained awake despite the healers’ potions. Waiting and listening to the lists. The lists of the wounded and the dead. None of the Company. None of his nephews, he was selfishly glad to hear._

_Dirty, begrimed and still in his gleaming mithril-corslet, the Bilbo Baggins that had been summoned to Thorin’s tent was much older than that hobbit that had left Bag End all those months ago. But his eyes were still kind after all had passed between them, willing to forgive--but not necessarily forget--all manner of hard words and rash actions as was his wont._

_Most importantly of all, he was still_ alive _and Thorin had thought that it would be no bad thing to learn to forgive from the hobbit._

_“You are far too stubborn and pig-headed to take care of yourself, Thorin Oakenshield. So I'll do it if there aren't any other applicants for the job.”_

That might not been the most elegant proposal he had received, but Thorin had been remarkably clear-headed despite the many herbal draughts and poultices he had been given that day for his injuries. His sister-sons had almost lost their lives defending him and war had come to Erebor once again because he had succumbed to the sickness that had claimed his father and grandfather before him.

He had not escaped the taint of his line after all.

The horror of losing himself to greed had been upon him. The Arkenstone, when you got down to it, was an extremely pretty _rock_ revered by his grandfather. A glorified lump of coal to anyone who knew the truth about diamonds.

_"Not that I know of," Thorin had said from where he lay on a hastily assembled cot, trying not to bleed to death even though he was tired--oh so tired. But he would not have one more regret on his slate. "Handled many Kings before, have you?"_

_"Just one. Quite a handful he was too," Bilbo replied, managing a ghost of a smile in the middle of the carnage that peace-loving hobbits were seldom privy to._

_"You drive a hard bargain, Mister Baggins." He could not sit up and his face hurt like the blazes despite the potions, but he tried to turn a grimace of pain into a something else._

_"You should see me on Market Day back in the Shire." Bilbo looked at Thorin and his terrible injuries with something close to good-natured exasperation. “And look, I’m on my knees already.”_

He acknowledged what the hobbit was giving up--he knew how much Bilbo would miss his comfortable hobbit-hole and the sun-kissed hills of the Shire. In exchange, Thorin could only offer the ever-present clanging of hammers in the forges, the darkness under the mountain and a meagre ration of the King's time. For Erebor needed to be restored and Durin's Line had a duty to its people.

_While in the presence of the members of the original Company, Bilbo would always claim that he had taken advantage of the fact that Thorin was higher than a kite on pain-numbing potions at that time. Thorin fought to keep his face straight each time because he was dwarf enough to know that he had got the better end of the bargain._

_So Thorin had placed his battle-scarred palms within the small circle of the hobbit's softer hands and though they could not be officially bonded, not with an army of tradition-bound dwarves just outside, they had sealed their bargain under the eye of Gandalf Greyhame--not merely a purveyor of fine fireworks but a kingmaker in his own right._

_Facing a dearth of living parents on either side, they could and did give themselves away. No fanfare, no fancy invitations and no worrying about what the Sackville-Bagginses and the good folk of the Shire would think._

There was an additional contract drawn up for it later, with sub-clauses, codicils and lengthy appendices. Bilbo had paid particular attention to one appendix in particular, pertaining specifically to his position in a certain area. The documents lay in a sealed chest with three specially designed locks in a secret compartment under the floor of their bedchamber. All very legal and officious except for the fact that it would never see the light of day in this day and age.

As far as the dwarves were concerned, Thorin Oakenshield might have been Durin reborn and come again after reclaiming Erebor. His taking of a Halfling consort could be forgiven as the royal line still continued in his sister-sons. But they would draw the line at naming a hobbit as co-ruler. Not that Bilbo _wanted_ to rule the dwarves of Erebor--he just wanted _one_ particular dwarf. 

_That one--the stubborn one with the crown and a mountain on his shoulders, thank you very much._

And Thorin Oakenshield had seen it fit to grant that request because while dwarves were not very romantic creatures in public, they understood a thing or two about joint-ownership and how possession was approximately nine-tenths of the law. They were jealous of their rights, as Men would say. But Men and Elves did not know that many things about them.

The shame of oaths broken and promises that he had failed to keep haunted Thorin more than the Dwarf lords, the dukes of Men and the kings of Elves would ever know. He was determined not to break the ones he had made after the Battle. Starting with the personal ones, of course.

Bilbo was . . . firm about certain things. There were no discussions of the issues that plagued him unless Bilbo asked about them to allow Thorin to rant for a while. There was no extra paperwork allowed past the door without Bilbo’s permission. And there was no talking during meals until the last mouthful was finished when Thorin was late for supper. There was no way Bilbo could show the dwarves who bickered and argued all day in front of the King’s throne the door, but he was firm about his rights.

And the blue ribbon. Oh dear Maker, the blue ribbon. How in Mahal’s name did a hobbit from the Shire know about such things?

_“I was slightly wild as a youngster,” Bilbo remarked and that was all he would say about it._

Thorin quietly spooned his stew down while Bilbo ran a hot bath and polished the iron crown as though he would rather be twisting it like a piece of damp washing. Or the necks of the petty bureaucrats and merchants. There was no love lost between the hobbit and the symbol of the King’s duties. When Bilbo had buffed the crown until it shone dully and was calmer for it, he went with Thorin into the marble-floored bathing chamber.

No valets or servants attended to the King there. Only one pair of hands was allowed to undress the royal person, but they were briskly impersonal that night, fussing over the heavy robes rather than lingering over Thorin’s scarred skin.

Last but never least, Bilbo removed the simple collar from Thorin’s neck. A single opal set in the centre of the band made the collar decorative enough to pass for jewellery. But it was not merely decorative. Not to Thorin, who was not allowed to take it off.

When Bilbo was not there, in the Hall of Audience with all the grubbing merchants who thought themselves lords and merchant princes who were no better than shopkeepers if the way they haggled was anything to go by, Thorin had the collar and the promises he had made.

_Gold is not my master. Gems will not sway me. My heart and mind obeys only one person._

It was a constant reminder that kept his soul from the corruption that had tainted it before.

Bilbo’s breath at the nape of Thorin’s neck as he worked his braids loose was familiar and reassuring. Perched on a stool behind the King, the hobbit performed this intimate task every night, always willing to supply a scalp-massage whenever the audience sessions wore on too long. He complained that the audiences kept Thorin, who was still not in the pink of health, up far too late and gave him stress headaches.

But duty called, as always, and Thorin was glad to ease his aching bones into the warm water of the marble bathtub. Bilbo was more impressed by the ingenuity of dwarrow plumbing than anything else under the mountain, remarking that a constant supply of hot running water was worth more than gold in his honest opinion.

If only all the races of Dwarves, Elves and Men thought like Bilbo Baggins . . . Thorin might have had an easier time of it in the negotiations following the great Battle. The hobbit’s desires leaned towards the simple comforts of home and the Company had done their best to soften the edges of the royal apartments. Thorin was grateful for the warm rugs underfoot and hot baths whenever his wounded leg acted up. He could tell when it was going to rain by the twinges in his knee now.

“You really should get a more comfortable cushion for your throne,” Bilbo said as he shampooed and washed Thorin’s hair. “Or just a more comfortable throne in general. I heard that some innovative chap has been knocking up special chairs for injured warriors to support them.”

“Mmm.” Balin had mentioned it once as well. Perhaps he had spoken to Bilbo about it . . . 

“Thorin? Are you still with me?”

“The traditionalists will have a collective fit,” Thorin murmured with his eyes still closed. “The throne of Durin is apparently sacred.”

“And it’s hard. And made of rock.” Bilbo thought that thrones were merely fancy chairs for royalty to sit on.

“Marble and basalt.”

“Rocks,” Bilbo said. “Cold and uncomfortable rocks.”

“We’ll see if discreet adjustments can be made.” Thorin’s royal back and sacred fundament would certainly be grateful for it after audiences that crossed the three-hour mark.

“Soon?”

“Soon,” Thorin promised and looked up hopefully. Bilbo dropped a kiss on his forehead and drew back.

“To bed with you, Thorin,” Bilbo said, not unkindly for he had a good understanding of what the King Under the Mountain faced every day. “You were up since dawn and I’m not about to have you fall asleep and drown in the bathtub.”

“Yes, Bilbo.” The King’s word, once given, was law. Even if it was a law that applied only within these walls.

“Tomorrow’s your day off. We’ll have time then,” Bilbo said, no doubt also thinking about the box in its place under the floor and when he would open it again to take out the single length of royal blue ribbon. 

Kings did not get a day off, but Bilbo had argued that not doing the work of a king for one day did not make Thorin any less a king. And if everyone in the King’s inner circle conspired to ensure that Thorin had a day off once a month, they would claim that they were doing it for the hobbit, not for trifling reasons like how there were additional grey and white streaks in Thorin’s hair after the Battle of Five Armies and the retaking of Erebor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midmorning in Erebor without a royal audience was a peaceful time. Balin knocked on the door of the royal suite and waited politely.

Bilbo answered after a brief pause. He was casually dressed in a linen shirt and his usual trousers held up with suspenders, looking as unprepossessing as he had been the day they had met.

“Oh hello, Balin. Fíli, Kíli,” he said cheerfully. Barefoot in the way of his people and shorter than most dwarves, Bilbo Baggins was still the gatekeeper of his small realm and he did not invite them in.

This was, of course, a charade they had to maintain.

“The Ironfist delegation is here. Seven days late, of course, but they insisted that they see the King immediately,” Balin informed him.

Bilbo pretended to scratch his head. “The King? He’s a little preoccupied at the moment . . . Could it wait a bit?”

“Ah? Then I shall tell the envoys,” Balin said with a twinkle in his eye. He did not, to his credit, wink at Bilbo.

“Yes, yes--tell them that he’s . . . a little tied up right now.”

Kíli and Fíli, the rascals, did wink at him while grinning hugely. Everyone was pretending that they could not hear the mellow tones of the harp filtering through the doorway.

“I will frame an appropriate response. Is there anything else we can do? People get nervous when the King’s not shouting orders at them for any length of time,” Balin said, his countenance as smooth as mirror glass. 

“Erm, have some food sent up please--we won’t be having lunch in the Dining Hall today.”

“I see. Why don’t I get Kíli and Fíli to take a list down to the kitchens then?” The younger warriors had escaped from the Battle of the Five Armies with no serious injuries to their limbs and were rapidly becoming popular despite Kíli’s worries that the scar across his face might make him less attractive to Captain Tauriel of the Mirkwood elves. Fíli, who had lost part of his right ear, always rolled his eyes and kicked his brother whenever the topic came up.

“Much obliged. Just second breakfast, or brunch if you prefer. You know, the usual.” Bilbo waved a hand. “Toast, well-buttered, a light salad, some cheese, bacon, ham, sausages with all the trimmings. Some smoked salmon would be nice. And some hard-boiled quails’ eggs if they’re available.”

Balin did not even raise an eyebrow. “And a side of thinly sliced roast beef and red wine as well?”

“Good gracious, no, we don’t want to be too stuffed for dinner.” Bilbo looked at Thorin’s nephews, who sobered up remarkably quickly at this. “We’re dining with the Lady Dís and the rest of the Company tonight after all. But the wine and some cake would be welcome if the cooks have any.”

And that was apparently the end of the conversation. The King was not coming out to see the tardy delegation that day.

He made his way back into the inner chambers of the royal suite. There was a room with an open balcony right at back. The railings and the mesh that encased the entire structure were practically invisible. Hobbits were not fond of eternal dimness--the reflected sunlight of Erebor’s halls could never compare to the sunlit slopes of the Shire. And that was why the King had a room constructed with a view right down the steep slopes of the mountain.

It had caused a great deal of consternation amongst the dwarves, who cited safety concerns and valuing traditional architecture. But the King pointed out that there were few things that could scale the sheer cliff without attracting notice unless the guards armed with arbalests and manning the trebuchets mounted on the higher peaks--new additions in the days after the Battle of the Five Armies--were napping on the job.

And so Bilbo had a pleasant little terrace to bask on in warm weather. The elegant set of furniture on it had been made for him by Thorin’s own hands, including the beautifully carved bench the King Under the Mountain was currently leaning against as he played his harp while seated on a rug on the floor. A ribbon of royal blue silk held one of his longer braids against the solid wooden armrest of the bench, but he made no move to touch this flimsy anchor.

“The envoys from the Ironfists arrived. A week late too,” Bilbo said as he plumped up the cushions on the bench before sitting down again. “And you had that lovely feast all ready for them. Shame none of them could be on time to eat it.”

Coaxing a traditional slow dwarven melody from his golden harp, Thorin looked up carefully. “And what, pray, did you tell Balin?”

“The truth, of course,” Bilbo said as he made himself comfortable and frowned at the top of Thorin’s head. “Now where was I? Ah, there it is . . .”

Thorin relaxed another fraction as nimble fingers started to braid his hair. “If only they knew that I was being held hostage by a hobbit . . .”

“Hmmm, let me see if I care . . .” Bilbo put his head to one side as though giving the matter more thought. “Nope--not one whit, not one jot. They can cool their heels in the guest rooms and have bread and dripping for their tea while you have your day off.”

“No doubt growing angrier and more slighted by the second,” Thorin remarked with smirk. A rumble that resembled the deep purr of a particularly large cat emerged from his throat as Bilbo combed his fingers through his hair. Bilbo did not have to bother about the guests because this was Thorin’s house--mountain. He did not deal with tetchy foreign dwarves.

“That’s up to you to deal with tomorrow, I suppose.” Bilbo knew that there was no love lost between certain dwarf clans and the Line of Durin, but he was not going to join in. Several decades spent avoiding the Sackville-Bagginses as much as possible had taught him that there was no more room in his life for another family feud.

Another knock on the main door--the royal chambers had rather good acoustics--did not interrupt the flow of the music.

“That would be the food. Don’t stop playing--I’ll get it,” Bilbo said, tying off another braid before trotting off to answer the door.

Thorin was used to the hobbit’s prodigious appetite, so he was not surprised when Bilbo returned with a loaded trolley.

“Your nephews delivered it--claimed they had to guard it from poisoners.” Bilbo looked over the repast critically. “And they took it upon themselves to taste-test the cake too.”

Years of practice allowed Thorin to keep a straight face even though he could imagine his sister-sons announcing this with cake-crumbs on their jerkins. They could play the fool for a few years more now that he was King Under the Mountain--he owed them that much after the privations of their earlier decades. He had chosen to overlook Kíli mooning over Thranduil’s Captain--the elf had saved his life after all. “Are you intending on billeting a small army?”

“No, we’re having a picnic right here,” Bilbo said, proving once again that hobbits were the experts at relaxing and enjoying themselves on a warm afternoon. “Since your nephews did not start foaming at the mouth, we can assume that the cakes are safe.”

He laid out all the dishes on the floor and proceeded to feed Thorin every mouthful so that the dwarf did not have to stop playing his harp. It got harder to concentrate when he was plied with good red wine as well.

“Pleasant as this is, I require the use of the bathroom now.”

Bilbo reached over and tugged at the ribbon, unravelling the bow. “After that, it’s time for our afternoon nap.”

“Yes, Bilbo,” Thorin said obediently. Heeding the words of his chosen companion had not come easily for him at first, but it had been worth it in the end.

“And then dinner with your sister and the Company. I’ll set out your clothes for later.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The weekly dinner was a private time. Away from the rest of the dwarrow court and confined to the royal family and a few close companions if they desired the extra company.

Or when Bilbo wished to dine with the Company, his closest friends in the reclaimed kingdom under the mountain.

It was not formal, but no excessive quaffing and violent dish-throwing was allowed. Bilbo permitted some plate-juggling once the food had been finished for entertainment. For old times’ sake.

Bilbo liked these occasions. He could play the gentlehobbit and pay extravagant compliments to Dís. There would be reminiscing between the members of the Company and much pipe-smoking and singing. Fíli and Kíli would bring out their instruments and play--the others might join in, as they did on that particular evening. Bofur was in high spirits and his voice was soon joined by the others as they utilised the excellent acoustics of the royal chambers to sing old drinking songs and nostalgic ballads.

They celebrated being alive. Some of them might not be as nimble as they were before and Thorin certainly would not be as fast on his feet as he once had been, but they were _alive_.

After viewing the decently-sized fireworks display put on by the Men of New Dale to mark the end of autumn, the guests bade their hosts good night and left them alone. The effect was rather spoilt by Fíli and Kíli nudging and winking at them as they exited.

“Those scamps,” Bilbo said fondly. Like Thorin, he had been relieved that they had survived with just enough battle scars to tell tales with and no lasting damage.

“They will do well to keep their noses out of our affairs,” Thorin growled. He had the satisfaction of knowing that Dís would take them in hand for their cheek. “But now . . .”

“Where did I put the ribbon then?” Bilbo mused, tapping his chin. He took pity on Thorin after a moment of patting his pockets. “Take your clothes off, my king. And don’t ruin the silk.”

Like all dwarves, Thorin Oakenshield wore at least three layers of robes, tunic and under-tunic, breeches and heavy boots when not wearing full armour and chainmail. He did not cast all his clothes off onto the floor, for Bilbo disapproved of rumpling his finery unless he was the one doing the rumpling. Each item had to be folded and stacked neatly on the bench at the foot of the bed.

The ribbon had not been tied tightly, but its presence had been like a warm promise that wrapped around the King’s loins since Bilbo had put the length of silk around him when they had dressed for dinner. 

The same length of silk that had bound their contract, in the box under the floor.

Thorin felt himself twitch as Bilbo’s eyes travelled lower, to where the ribbon lay, untouched around the base of his erection.

“Let me take care of you,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin by the hand and leading him to the bed.

“Always,” Thorin rumbled as he lay on his back on the wide mattress. 

“Always,” Bilbo promised as he removed the silk ribbon and wrapped it around Thorin’s wrists before pressing them lightly above his head, trusting that the dwarf king would follow his orders “Close your eyes.”

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut, knowing better than to argue. He wanted to see his burglar’s face but he had to be content with his imagination as Bilbo’s hands traced the planes of his face and then continued down to his neck and the ridge of his collarbone. That gentle touch left goose bumps in its wake and Thorin felt himself grow harder, if that was even possible at this point.

A warm, wet mouth suckled at the junction of his neck and shoulders and Thorin gave voice to his desire at last.

“Tell me what feels good, tell me what you like,” the voice next to his ear commanded and Thorin complied. Sometimes in Westron and sometimes in Khuzdul.

He had no idea if Bilbo could make sense of his babbling sometimes, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. At that point, Thorin only knew that Bilbo was near, Bilbo would stop if he even looked discomfited and that Bilbo would never tell a soul about how he could undo a king with touch alone.

“You, just you,” Thorin sighed, breathless after a portion of his frustrations had been vented and his muscles were trembling with the effort of holding still.

Silk would not hold against the might of a dwarf, but Bilbo had never brought up the idea of stronger bindings. He trusted that Thorin was in control of his own mind. The day that Thorin lost that control was not one they wanted to see, but they were prepared for it. The stopgaps against the madness--the mantras, the collar and Thorin’s submission--were just that. They could not fool themselves into thinking otherwise--that way lay danger and complacency.

“I’m here.” And Bilbo trusted him to keep his promises. Believed that he would not hurt him with his superior strength again. Enough to sleep in the same bed and touch him in ways that Thorin had not allowed himself to be touched. Sometimes--most of the time--the hobbit’s belief in him took Thorin’s breath away.

The light fingers ghosting down his chest and stomach made him suck in a deep lungful of air as he anticipated the soft brush of curly hair against his skin. He could practically see Bilbo admiring the muscles of his abdomen. Then his gaze would slide lower and-- _oh Maker_ . . . Thorin let out a half-bitten off growl as a warm gust of air brushed his aching member.

“Don’t move. Just concentrate on feeling . . .”

And Thorin did not move his hands from above his head even though he was sorely tempted to do so. Just before he saw fireworks of a different sort exploding behind his eyelids and his world shattered again and again as soft hands and a warm mouth enveloped him. 

As always, the feeling of those smaller fingers anchored him and guided him home once more as they undid the ribbon and he was free to move again. Free to hold the soft body next to him and just _be_. Not a king with testy clans and irritable craftsmen to deal with. Not a dwarf with all the expectations of his people to live up to. Not Thorin of the uncertain temper and the gold-sickness of his line. Just loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Mordor, he who was once Mairon, now discorporate and bodiless, writhed and twisted as he felt the influence of a strange sensation he had never felt before . . .

He had been driven back and his forces had been routed once again, but he was patient. He could wait until they had grown lax and soft again. 

Despite the sense of foreboding he knew whenever he reached out for the One Ring . . . There was a disquieting feeling that something else was blocking his influence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bilbo never really knew why he kept the gold ring he had found under the Misty Mountains in a pouch in the box that held their contract. It had just felt right. He had thought about giving it to Thorin once when they had made their promises, but as there had always been a chance of him succumbing to the gold-sickness again, Bilbo had given up on the idea subconsciously. The ring had always brought out the worst in him and Thorin did not need any of that.

Occasionally, he felt the urge to put the ring on, but he was too busy writing his memoirs of his unexpected adventure and taking care of his unexpected--but not unwelcome--king and lover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> There was always the issue of the One Ring potentially screwing everything up. But maybe it could be reversed, especially if Bilbo had withstood its influence for a record amount of time. Make Sauron think of kittens and vomit rainbows. Easier said than done though.
> 
> I don’t usually write happy ending AUs, but knowing how this all ends makes me want to bawl.
> 
> Fangirl life: Went on vacation, scratched at some old fics while one holiday, went home, cleaned up after the house-painters left, watched _The Desolation of Smaug_ , had all the feels, finished this fic, panicked because I haven’t written D/s in ages, need to finish all those other fics . . .


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